If She Doesn't Scare You
by Nohbdy Knows
Summary: Cruella De Vil is captured by Emma and friends as they search for the author. In an effort to turn her over to their side they inquire after her back story.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Back story of Cruella De Vil, it's been on my computer for a while. Trigger warning for abuse. I own nothing.**

"Cruella De Vil  
Cruella De Vil  
If she doesn't scare you  
No evil thing will  
To see her is to  
Take a sudden chill  
Cruella, Cruella  
She's like a spider waiting  
For the kill  
Look out for Cruella De Vil

At first you think  
Cruella is the devil  
But after time has worn  
Away the shock  
You come to realize  
You've seen her kind of eyes  
Watching you from underneath  
A rock!

This vampire bat  
This inhuman beast  
She ought to be locked up  
And never released  
The world was such  
A wholesome place until  
Cruella, Cruella De Vi"

-Disney 101 Dalmations

_Now_

Cruella had been captured. Left in the wooden cabin slumped over she had run out to warn the Dark One, once she had, he had gone off on some rant and left her. It didn't take long for Emma, Hook, and August to find her, though she got the impression it wasn't her they were looking for. She was tied down to a chair, a small circle of "Hero's" surrounding her.

"Have you seen the Author?" August was the first to speak.

"I didn't know he was out," Cruella replied, "though if you do find him I'd love to question him."

"Why are you here? What ending do you want?" Emma asked, hoping for the same success they'd had with Ursula. Cruella tilted her head, "You want my story? Everything? From the beginning? I warn you it's not a happy story." Her jaw jumped as she clenched her mouth shut. If these hero's granted Ursula with what she wanted, and if the Dark One was going to abandon her at every turn, why not? Why not tell them everything? It wasn't anything they could fix, but it would buy her time so Rumpelstiltskin could come rescue her.

"We want you to stop searching for the author. He's not what you think," Emma frowned.

"Perhaps not, but I don't have a lot options…."

"Maybe, if you tell us what happened to you…" Emma kneeled down to eye level.

Cruella didn't want to remember… but she did.

It started with her parents, a couple of average workers: Bronn and Hazel.

_Then_

Camella got the love story as a child, from both of them at once; with happy smiles as they told her about how, Bronn, being a fisherman, owned a boat on the river, and the day Hazel fell in over the old stone bridge, he just had to rescue her. He played the role of a gentleman, and walked her home, even though she lived in a farm a good two hours walk away. They'd laughed, they'd talked, and when they reached the door Bronn knew, he couldn't ever let Hazel go. So he start to call on her, took her dancing, brought her flowers. Her dad never approved but when he saw the way Hazel looked at Bronn, he relented and allowed them to marry. Happily Ever After.

The story of course doesn't quite end there, though Camella didn't get the second half of the story for a very long time. They tried for years to conceive a child but were unsuccessful. They both wanted a baby, some product of their love, to hold and cherish. They tried doctors and hedge witches but no one could help. They heard of a man, one who made deals, and one who could procure anything, for a price: the Dark One. So they packed up a wagon and went in search of answers. When he found them, wandering on an old back road, they begged. Willing to pay any price. So, in exchange for the gift of a child, he promised one day the child would be offered a golden feather, free of charge. And if she takes it, her touch will be their undoing. Bronn scoffed, wondering why anyone would offer a child gold, for no cost at all, but his wife held him back and made him promise they would live out of the way of town, as to avoid time with strangers, and to keep their baby safe. He agreed, but in time the warning would fade and they would both forget their precautions.

At eight years old, Camella swung between her mother and father, enjoying the feeling of wind in her hair, as the both held on to one of her hands, allowing her to kick her feet up and swing, giggles in her throat and feet off the ground, the one way she truly would always enjoy life.

The fair had come to town that weekend, and her parents insisted that they walk and enjoy the beauty of the summer's day. The town they lived in was at the mouth of a great river, but otherwise, entirely landlocked. Festivals, fairs and the like came very rarely, only one every few years. So when they did come, everyone around would make the trek from their homes, to the cobbled streets and the western riverbank of town. The ordinarily grey and brown buildings would be alight with color and all kinds of people would perform acrobats and jugglers, fools and fortune tellers, strange men with exotic tales and exotic foods.

Camella held bother parents hands tightly in her own small fingers, smiling at the colors and music that filled the central square. Her dad knelt next to her,

"Cammie, your mom and I are gonna dance, so you just wait right here okay?" Cammie nodded trying her best to look good, obedient.

She always found her parents funny, whenever they went into town, her mum and dad would still talk in whispers, hold hands, they were so in love, she smiled as she watched her father dip her mother in the dance, and her mother still had the courtesy of a soft pink blush across her cheekbones. Her parents were a bookend match, tall, blonde, with soft brown eyes; Cammie believed they were part of a fairy tale. Not the crazy kind with princes and dragons, but the beautiful kind, the kind where two ordinary people who were meant to be together more than anything else in the whole world found each other, fell in love, and remained ridiculously happy.

So while she hummed along to the song and watched her parents dance, it wasn't her fault she didn't notice the old lady until she was right behind her, breathing down Cammie's neck.

"Hello little lady," A woman appeared in front of her clad in a ridiculously poufy purple gown.

"Hi," said Cammie shyly, "I'm not s`possa talk to strangers."

"I'm Gem," cackled the woman, "and now I'm not a stranger anymore."

"I guess so…" Cammie scrunched up her nose and tilted her head to the side.

"So little lady," Gem continued grinning, "Would you mind taking something off of my hands for me?" She held up a pretty trinket, a light gold feather on a golden chain.

"I don't got any money," Cammie said turning away to watch her father spin her mother who's melodic laugh she could hear, barely.

"I don't want any money; I just want you to have it."

"Really?" Cammie furrowed her eyebrows, "You'd just give it away?"

Gem sighed, "Some beautiful things are far more trouble than they are worth." She held out the necklace. Cammie reached out and took it, small hand encircling the gold feather. It grew hot to the touch and her eyes widened, "Gem?" She looked up but the old woman was gone. She tried to drop the plume but it held fast to her skin. She was about to cry out when the feather seemed to dissolve in her palm completely. She looked around in stunned silence, but no one else seemed to notice anything. Fear pulsated through her, she didn't know what had just happened but it couldn't have been good.

Her parents came back to her, "Mum!" she called hugging her knees, "I saw this strange lady and she was talking and I told wasn't s`possa to talk to strangers but she said she wasn't and she want to give me something and she did and she disappeared and I don't know what…" Her mom knelt down next to her hushing her softly,

"But you're okay?" Cammie nodded, "Well, that's the only thing that matters baby doll." Her mom hugged her around the middle and Cammie reached up to hug her neck, reverberations of fear and emotion clung to her skin, as if she could feel them dancing on it, instead of somewhere within her, where they normally resigned. A sudden gasp of pain made Cammie tighten her grip. She felt her mom stiffen and go limp in her arms. "Momma?" she said in surprise letting go to look at her. She slumped to the ground and Cammie reached out to her, shaking her shoulder. "Momma?" Her eyes were shut and she lay still in the afternoon sun, "MOMMA WAKE UP!" Cammie pleaded but Momma never did. Her father rushed down nearly bowling Cammie over. He shook his dead wife, "Hazel…" his eyes watered, what could have happened? He turned to Camella. His daughter. He had to be strong. For her. But he saw her trembling. He reached out to hug her, calm her, but she backed away. "I…I…" Cammie looked down at her mum, and he understood.

"Camella," He looked in her eyes, "this is very important." Camella nodded blankly. "What did the strange lady give you, and what did she look like?"

Cammie let out a chocked sound, and then started slowly to speak, "She was old, with grey hair and green eyes. She wore a purple dress. She gave me a feather. A gold feather."

"A golden feather?"

"Yes."

He backed away, not wishing to touch his little girl. Not now. Not ever again.

_Now_

"It started when I killed my mother," she looked up to the small crowd, "no truly I did, but it was an accident. I never meant it. But from their things just got worse."

They stared blankly, August and Hook sitting at opposite ends of a couch, Emma still kneeling by her feet.

"My name wasn't always Cruella, you know. No parent names their child "Cruella", it was a name I earned myself. Back then I was Camella, Cammie, Cam, a lot of things. My parents made a deal with the Dark One. Idiots. I was cursed with a deadly touch."

She closed her eyes remembering back to what happened after her mother's death.

_Then_

It was the last good day for Cammie. Everyone in their lives reaches a point when all the good days have ended, and only the sick, dying days of pain remain. The problem is most people don't know the last good day when they see it. At the time, it's just another day.

The last good day happened to be her mother's funeral. Her father took her aside, telling her that her mom had had a heart attack, and her heart simply stopped. Camella knew he was lying. Trying to make her feel better was his job, as her dad. But from the moment she touched her mum, she knew it was death. Her dad said that it was the death she probably would have wanted, in the arms of her baby girl. But Camella seriously doubted her mum had wished herself to die in the arms of her daughter—of eight years.

The townsmen and women came to mourn over the grave, and Cammie stood silently, waiting while the priest said words and her father cried. But his arm never left her shoulder. She was wearing a coat, and gloves in precaution, but it was the last time he willingly touched her in a nice way, the last time he offered comfort or parent-like bonding. It was their last good day.

_Now_

"At first my father was kind. Tried to make me feel better, innocent even. I knew what had happened, but…"

_Then_

It didn't take Camella long to realize it was her touch, coupled with fear and anger that had devastating effects on life. She was so angry that her mother was gone and her father was distant, that when she had pet the family cat, it purred, but when she left her hand resting in its fur, it died too. And when she went to milk the old sow, it fell at her feet. She quickly grasped her touch was lethal. Like poison. Her father certainly avoided it. He avoided even her gaze and began to drown himself in the moonshine whiskey he purchased with any money they had. So she held back, stopped touching people, animals, everything. She reigned in the emotions, if she stopped thinking, if she stopped feeling, maybe they wouldn't jump out of her skin like a twisted defense mechanism.

She accidentally leaned up against the old farm horse one afternoon, almost a year since the great tragedy. The horse stood still as if nothing had happened. Cammie looked up in surprise, and reached out tentatively stroking its nose. The first contact in so long, its skin was warm. Cradling her hand back against her chest she turned around to tell her father the good news.

"Dad?" She called creeping in hoping he wasn't too drunk to hear her.

"Camella." He was sitting at the table staring into space. His work boots at his feet, shirt and belt lay out on the table. She walked closer to him ready to feel human contact again, daring to hope. He stood briskly, "I will not have you touching me she-witch." He hadn't spoken much since the funeral, the last time he comforted her at all. And she bit back the bitter, hid her disappointment, but said ever so softly, "I think I can do it, learn to control it…?"

"No. You are our undoing, you cannot control it, it has been promised. You will never be able to completely block your emotions."

"But…" she blinked back tears and reached out for him, she just wanted to be held, loved, by her only remaining family. He grabbed the belt on the table, lashing out and hitting her for the first time across the arms. He commanded her to turn lean over the table, and she did. He whipped her back once, twice, three times, and told her never to try and touch him again. He told her it was for her own good. Someday she'd see he was protecting them both. Watching as she sobbed he pulled on his shoes. He strode out, heavy boots thundering on the dirt floor. Camella lay on the ground pulling herself up slowly, hoping, instead of having love she could just not be beaten to death. Long angry red slashes and welts ran up and down her back from that day forwards.

Her hopes were in vain. The money dried up quickly after that first year. And while she continued to practice control of her lethal touch, her father grew more angry, more impatient. She began stealing. Learning how and when to creep in and out of buildings, slipping things into the folds of her dress with nary a brief flash of hand, she became fairly skilled, and when her father demanded money for his whiskey, she pickpocketed strangers, hoping they had enough money back home. She was caught various times, but gradually learned her new skill with finesse. She was lashed more than once for trying to talk to her father, about mum or about their situation, or his drinking.

Her touch at first ran hot and cold, she practiced with the old rabbits in the hutch at their closest neighbors, who went to town every day from dawn to mid-day to sell whatever foods and goods they had. Camella learned that by focusing, very hard she could block her feelings, the pain, misery, but if, for a single moment she gazed off lost in thought, the rabbit would stop twitching in her arms. At least in this manner she could make stew at home. Her father always treated her marginally better if meat was involved in the cooking.

Then the neighbors got wise to someone stealing their rabbits, she noticed the old man as she meandered down the path, he stood by the window, watching as she stopped and turned around, never returning to the hutch. She tried hunting in the woods but any skill with a bow and arrow eluded her. She couldn't get close enough to touch wild game, and farmers tended to notice more than one kill. Soon the only food she could get was what she stole in market.

But she would survive. It was quite simple really, all she had to do was bring home food, keep her head down and never, under any circumstances, physically touch another human being.

_Now_

"Father became cruel, he began to blame me, I had to steal to survive…I did this for six years."

Emma looked at Cruella who was lost in memory, but she felt a sort of kinship to this woman, who had lived without necessary parental warmth, though in a different manner than she had.

"However, one day there was an apple that tipped the barrel."

_Then_

She ran through the market square, much like she used to when she was younger, except now, she was actually running from something. Or rather, someone. Her hurried steps took her to the gates that marked the end of town and she quickly scrambled over them to the other side, the man chasing her halted at the Iron Gate,

"If you ever set foot in this market again I will kill you!" She sped down the road faster clutching the bread to her chest in a steely grip. She darted around trees and disappeared into the woods. She knew she was making a mistake by stealing from the bakery when the man wouldn't take his eyes off her. But it smelled so good. Unable to resist, she had nearly been caught, but managed to wiggle out of the man's grip and take off. It wasn't until she was half way home that she slowed down, chest heaving, ragged breathing, collapsing to the ground for a moments rest by a small brook. She quenched her thirst before standing brushing off her stained blue dress and walking the rest of the way home.

For her, home was a secluded cottage at the edge of town, one where she stole and where she searched in vain for anyone who would employ a girl. She, more often than not just ended up stealing to survive. Her home was small, a squat wood structure with two rooms and a stove in one of them. She lived with her father, a burly old man, thick light hair and perpetually bloodshot eyes. When she walked in the door that day, she knew it wasn't one of his better days.

"Cammie…"he drawled sprawled across the floor, "where ever have you been?"

She could see the alcohol on him, the stench of whiskey and vomit assaulted her nose, he smiled a drunken smile, and she believed this to be one of his better hours, before the rage kicked in and blinded him to reason. Perhaps, if she were to tread lightly…

"I got dinner." She held up the bread with a hesitant smile, soft hoping he would accept the bread as sufficient. He didn't.

"Camella," He stated tilting his chin up, "That is not dinner. Dinner is meat. How can you expect me to work all day and come home to your failed attempts at providing me with food? It was never like this when your mother was around."

Cammie sighed silently. If he was bringing up her mother no good could come of this. It was always easier if she ducked her head, nodded along. Sometimes he even fell asleep if she was compliant enough. But not tonight. Her father hauled himself to his feet, walking closer he snatched the hard earned bread from her hands and tossed it to the floor, stepping on it with the heel of his boot, grinding the crumbs into the dirt that was their flooring.

"My poor little girl…" an eerie smile crept up on his face, "You know why you don't have a mother don't you?"

Camella backed away, into the wall. He'd tried to have this conversation before. Right after her mom died, her father told her it was a heart attack, simple, and natural. He'd tried to spare her feelings. But Camella knew. She tried not to think about, to lose herself in their poverty and bury the feelings down, down, down.

"She didn't die naturally Camella."

Her eyes watered and her jaw trembled.

"She's gone. And now the house is dirty, and you can't hunt and you can't cook. You are the most useless girl in all of the Realm. And Camella," a few tears slid down Cammie's face and she brushed them away sniffling.

"You killed your own mother."

Her heart beat stuttered, and the tears slid down freely hollow sobs raked her chest. She knew of course. She had always known. But to hear it confirmed, to hear his lips tell her the last words on this earth that she wanted to hear, was slow and painful torture. He smiled then, in his drunken stated and backed up. Picking up the bottled of moonshine from the floor. He took another swig. He paused watching his daughter crumple to the floor.

"_Get up" _He snarled, low and dangerous, "You have no right to mourn her. None. You're a demonic little witch and I want you out of my sight."

Camella didn't move from her position on the ground, ugly tears and agonizing sobs held her paralyzed to the ground. Her father took another swig.

"CAMELLA!" he bellowed and hurled the bottled at her. It hit the wall above her head and the glass pieces rained down on her from above. One bisecting her left eyebrow, causing a gush of red blood to flow down her face, into her eye. She stood up. Furious. Furious with him, with her life of endless shame, her inability to get a job, get proper food, or even take care of herself. She took a step forwards.

"Camella," he warned anger fading in the face of fear, "if you kill me now, no one will ever protect you. No one will ever love you." He swallowed nervously.

Camella halted a pace away from him, "If you think that will hurt me, it's too late. No one protects me now, no me loves me now, and no one ever will." The truth tore her apart inside, she want so badly for him to tell her she was wrong. That no matter what she did, she was his little girl, the same one he used to toss in the air, and spare a copper for a licorice stick at the general store. She wanted to be forgiven for something out of her control, something she hadn't known she had been doing. But the look on his face didn't say any of those things. He looked angry, he looked drunk, he looked afraid, but he didn't love her. He hadn't loved her as his daughter for a long time.

She reached forwards, anger bubbling under her skin, she could control it now with great focus, not that he knew. So when she first touched his arm he stilled,

"Cammie," he whispered, "it's not doing anything, are you free?"

"No. I just did what you said I could never learn to do. I am in control." She stood ready to leave, turning and pausing at the door when she heard laughter from the floor. "You aren't going to kill me? Very well," she watched him stand, unsure what his next move might be. He lifted his hand and back handed her across her cheek. Camella gasped inaudibly, pain now competing with that above her eye. He looked straight at her,

"You don't deserve to live." He removed his belt and grinned in a satisfactory way when she flinched, remembering all the times he had lashed her for her insubordination, or not bringing home the correct amount or type of food. But this time, he didn't ask her to turn and get on her knees. He slipped the belt around her neck, while she stood, fear in her eyes, fear, and sorrow.

"I don't want to hurt you daddy." In spite of what he was doing, he was her only link to her mother, he was her family. He pulled tighter,

"My daughter died that day at the fair, and _you _replaced her. A poor copy if you ask me."

Camella couldn't stop the tears, they burned down her face and she struggled for breath. She reached behind her hoping to stop him, hoping to get air, but in her desperation she couldn't control it, it didn't just burn beneath her skin, it was on top. And the moment her trembling fingers made contact with his hands she felt it. She felt him crumple to the ground, heart stopped, eyes wide open. She fell too, struggling for each ragged breath. When she could breathe again, she crept closer and closed his eyes,

"I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry."

_Now_

"I killed my father too. Again, not on purpose, but I had no other choice. I lashed out to defend myself, not taking into account what I could do… and he crumpled to the ground," She cleared her throat, looking away still lost.


	2. Chapter 2

_Then_

Camella had been on the run for about a year, leaving behind the cottage and memories good and bad. Taking only her spare dress, her mother's wedding band, and all the food that would fit in a satchel, she flew as fast as her feet would carry her, down in town she pleaded for a job any job, but in the town she was regarded as that little thieving girl. The only advantage she had was no one knew what she was or what she had done. If that were the case she was certain they'd have chased her out of the streets by now. One of the shop keeps went as far as to suggest instead of trying to work sweeping out shops she should just get on with it and get to the whorehouse. Camella paled and swallowed the bile that rose in her throat at that suggestion. And resisted the very tempting urge to reach out and touch him, ask him how much men would enjoy her company.

She tried to find a job at the inn, as a kitchen maid, or laundress, but they kicked her out for inexperience and not needing anymore people to pay. She tried the old families but no one was hiring, except Mr. Pearson, who suggested she come up any time after dark and he'd give her a copper for her troubles.

Sighing in defeat she trudged out of town to the woods where she'd been sleeping. If there was any solace to her plight, it was she never felt unsafe. Any man or beast that tried to touch her in her sleep was in for a nasty surprise. She sat cross legged on the forest floor, directly over a puddle. She was sick of being disregarded for being a stupid little girl. Someday she vowed she wouldn't be so stupid, or so little. But most of all, she was sick of being a girl. Which was an unchangeable fact in terms of biology, but she was done, done with the suggestive comments and derogatory statements. Taking a stolen knife out of her worn leather satchel she held it in an unpracticed manner. She held it at her neck, perhaps if she just ended it now, the pain would stop. Everything would stop.

She looked at her reflection in the puddle at her feet, dirty, broken, a raised red scar, livid on her eyebrow, her odd light eyes, blue almost translucent, so unmatched to her parents, her spare (now only) dress, once a pale pink was torn and stained and mended one too many times. She looked at the knife and at her neck, and the waist length tangle that was her silvery blonde hair. She sliced the knife left, cutting off a large hunk of hair. She did the same to the other side, and then up, further and further, until she could comb her fingers through the unkempt mess. When she looked down into the puddle, she looked up and smiled for the first time in weeks, what began as a simple haircut had sparked a new idea in her mind. She didn't have to become a boy—she just had to look like one.

She settled in to sleep, unable to stop running her fingers through her hair, giggling to herself in the woods. The insanity of being alone for too long was eating into her head. At random times she would turn and laugh or crack a joke at the empty space next to her. She would stop and break down in a fit of tears, or blindly run in a surge of anger. Without any need to act normal or try to control herself she'd become odd, wild. But this day, marked the start of possibility. She figured she may never be happy again, but perhaps she could eke out a better living, one with more company than herself.

At sunrise she awoke, slinking off to the edges of town, she spotted a clothes line. She scanned seeing a dress that _might _fit her, with a good deal of sewing in. But she paused, fingering her new hair. Trousers. She was going to need trousers. And a shirt. And something to tamper down her breasts. If she wanted any change at pulling this off. And on this line she saw only a shirt that would fit so she snuck up snatched it, and ran like hell. It was blue, pale blue and she tugged it on over her dress. It was a bit loose, but it would do. At the next line she found naught but baby clothes. Three lines down and far too close to the gates for her liking; she found a pair of tan trousers. She pulled them down, when a boy ran across the yard,

"What in the hell are you doing with my pants?"

He was her height; she guessed size fairly well, with brown hair and brown eyes and a funny little smile on his lips, as if he found her predicament amusing.

"I need them," she answered, voice too high and thin, out of practice.

"For what? You're a girl." She glanced around hoping to evade the question, wondering if she could out run him. But he reached forwards, to touch her shoulder, meaning to calm the look of sheer panic on her face. She backed up,

"Don't touch me. You can't touch me. Bad things happen." He narrowed his brows and blinked rapidly.

"Okay… but seriously, just tell me the truth, what are you doing? Do you need help?"

Camella stilled. It had been a long time, six years in fact, since someone offered to help her in any manner at all. Her eyes watered like she was going to cry, but realizing how absurd she must look she push her emotions down. Way down. And seeing no other option, she opted for the truth.

"I'm going to pretend to be a boy," she nodded twice to confirm her sureness of self. The boy laughed at that. Laughed until his face turn red and he fell on the ground.

"It's not funny!" she cried out, but smiled a bit when he finally regained control of himself.

"I'm Sam." He held out his hand, and she focused very, very hard and took it, not because she wanted the touch, no touch was bad… but she wanted to prove to herself she could do it,

"Cammie."

"Pleasure to meet you," he shook her hand up and down three times, grip tight but not painful. She tilted her head in confusion. "It's you first lesson in being a boy. Handshakes are crucial. Has to be firm, but not constricting, and you defiantly have to let go after three pumps."

Her mouth rounded into an "O", "You're gonna help me?"

"Welllll, yeah. It's not just the clothes; boys just have entirely different man-manisms? Something like that. My mom says it a lot. I have the rest of the day. I'm gonna teach you how to be a boy."

"But what do you want back? People always want something back."

"You'll owe me one."

She smiled, genuine but small, confined, afraid to hope but hoping anyway, "Okay… what's lesson number two?"

He laughed, "A boy would never be seen with your hair cut."

"Why?" she reached back pulling at the scattered blonde locks, "What's wrong with it?"

"It looks like you hacked it off with a scythe." She frowned and continued tugging at it.

"Come on inside," he invited gesturing with his hand.

"What about your parents?"

"Eh, they won't notice, they're having," he air quoted, "_Marital Problems_."

"But what are you going to do?" she sucked her cheek in her mouth nervously.

He smiled, "Fix your hair."

Sam had gangly frame, very thin but managed to walk as though he owned the world. He let her in the back door, where indeed his parents sat at a little round table inside, in some intense discussion, not noticing their son, leading in a girl with chopped off hair clad in a pink dress, and light blue shirt, barefoot. He went up some stairs and she followed to a space he would have called his room. She sat where he pointed, a little wooden stool. He pulled a pair of scissors from a drawer and Cammie resisted the urge to flinch, but failed. Not bothering to fully remember the last time she'd seen scissors and what they had done to her.

He approached, and began cutting away, she watched the hair fall down on the floor, and heard him curse when he accidentally stabbed his finger with the sharp edge of the scissors. When he finished he circled round her on the stool and smiled, holding up a finger to signal a quick return. He came back and handed her something silver, shiny. Camella quickly realized it was a mirror. She hadn't seen one in a while. Her reflection surprised her. Her hair, still ashen blonde, now looked more like her father's than mothers. It wasn't parted, but fell evenly around her head, subtle curls formed at the nape of her neck. Her face was harder somehow, than before, her nose slightly crooked from the time it had been broken, and that scar. She could swear it still burned. Sam cleared his throat,

"It's better. And with that badass scar, we can have you look like a man in no time."

"Really?" she looked awed, voice squeaking.

"Not if you do that," he winced and rubbed his ears, drawing attention to the fact that they stuck out of his head at a funny angle.

"Sorry," she blushed ducking her head.

"So, lesson three. Wearing pants. I'll just…" he waved at the door.

Cammie took a moment, figuring out which end went in front and how to lace up the blasted things. She rid herself of the dress afterwards; she looked again in the mirror. So close to believable, if only she didn't have breasts. If she could just pin them down somehow, like with a scarf? She called through the door asking Sam if his mom had any scarves. He said he'd look. A few minutes later a knock on the wood door startled her out of her thoughts. She opened it to Sam eyes shut, on hand firmly covering them, holding the white scarf through the door,

"It's old. She won't miss it."

Cammie took the scarf and rid herself of the shirt. She pulled it tight binding her breasts down, closer to her chest; she wound the scarf around the indent of her waist, tucking the ends into the trousers tightly. She pulled the shirt back on, buttoning it faster now. At her next glance in the small mirror it was nearly perfect. She opened the door to Sam in the same position as before. She smiled,

"You can open your eyes."

"Wow." He looked a tad surprised, circling her again. "You may actually pull this off."

"Goody."

"No. Don't say that. Lesson four. Boys—and men cuss. We swear, we spit, and we aren't afraid to be dirty."

"I got the dirty part down," her last bath had been a week ago, in a stream in the woods.

"I see that. Let's see you spit."

"Spit?"

"Like a man." He challenged, gleam in his eye, he hacked in the back of his throat and spit across the room, hitting the wall. "GO."

"Uh…" Cammie cleared her throat attempting to bring saliva to her mouth.

"No. You'll never get enough spit that way; you gotta dig for it, like its way back in your mouth."

She tried again and must have done better because he nodded. She tried to force it out of her mouth but it dribbled pathetically down her chin. He shook his head. About an hour and a hundred tries later she managed to spit half the distance of the room.

"Improvement," he nodded, "but work on it. Let's hear you cuss."

"Cuss?"

"Bad words. Don't tell me you don't know any?" He looked amused again, and Cammie resisted the urge to punch the grin off his face.

"Like hell?"

"Don't say the word like it's gonna bite you. Be angry, let it flow out of you, bite it."

"Hell. Damn. Shit."

"Good. Good. Let's go worse," a manic grin lit his face.

"I don't know worse," Cammie shrugged hoping he doesn't notice the red creeping up her neck.

"Cammie…live a little… break the rules, you're a boy now, and it's good to be bad."

"I still don't know."

"Then repeat after me," Sam smoothed his hair back, "I'm the baddest motherfucker in this bitch and I'm gonna fuck shit up."

"I…I don't think I can say that."

"Cammie—Cam, Cam is a man's name and it rhymes with mine, Cam and Sam," he thought aloud, "You are now Cam. Cam, just do it."

"I'm… what was it… a bad motherfucker?"

"Cam, you can't be confused about being a motherfucker. Yell it, scream it, be proud!"

"I'M A MOTHERFUCKER!" she yelled, trying to look tough but failing miserably laughing at the thrill of it.

"Good! Keep going, bitch, bastard, ass… let's go Cam!"

They spent time going over the various meanings of the words, literally and in context, as when people who generally first start swearing, they tend to mix up the meanings and what words to say when.

"Okay, so when you're in pain, first instinctual reaction?"

"Shit."

"That'll do."

"What's my next lesson?"

"Lesson number five: Standing and walking. Let's see you strut your stuff." Cam stands and awkwardly shuffles across the room standing by the bed on the opposite wall, leaning heavily on one hip.

"Stop right there," Sam shakes his head. He walks over to her and kicks her feet apart, "men take up space, okay, butt in, shoulders back, chin up, you now have all the time in the world to get places, you have to saunter, own your body."

Cam tries the slower walk, one of pride and masculinity. It's slow work, and she finally feels she is improving when Sam rushes out of the room, returning with some leather device.

"This might help. It's called a cod piece." He then explained what it represented in a series of hand motions and blushes, making Cam blush as she accepted it awkwardly unsure how to hold it.

"It ties onto your pants. Which brings us to Lesson six: think with your dick. Literally, you lead with it when you walk, if someone throws something at you guard it with your life, it something hits it you try not to cry like a little girl. And women. You're a man now; people will think you're weird if you don't notice girls. Just a causal gaze down their bodies will do."

"Do you have any idea how uncomfortable it is to be the recipient of that look?"

"It doesn't mean anything…usually…we just… you know… rule number six." He shrugs helplessly.

After finally figuring out the mess that was the cod piece, Cammie—Cam, felt ready. And Sam was being called to dinner.

"So this is good-bye?" She asked quietly, eyes rising to meet his.

"Yeah… good luck, Cam." He smiled and the paused, "Hold up one minute!" He dug in his dresser and pulled out a silver coin. "This should get you some decent boots. And after that may I suggest you hit the road? Head somewhere where you're not the town thief?"

"You knew?"

"It was kind of obvious, you stealing my pants and all." They laughed together, and when his mom called again for supper, he turned to go.

"Sam." Cammie—Cam, for once didn't have to think, she pulled him into a hug, "Thank you so much."

He stilled in surprise then hugged her back, "Rule number seven: Boys don't hug other boys." He pulled back and nodded, heading downstairs for dinner. She hoped someday she would meet him again. Cammie opened the window, crawled onto the roof, and leapt to the ground. But it was Cam who sauntered off into the night, into the next town, and into a new life.

_Now_

"I decided it would be easier to be on the run as a little boy, so I changed. I made a friend who taught me how to act like a boy. The only friend I had until The Queens of Darkness coup."

_Then_

Cam started heading down river, hopping the occasional fishing boat to the next town, keeping company with men, and learning her father's trade. Never on the same boat for more than one trip between towns. She liked her new boots, felt heavy, strong. Like she could take on the world in the old worn leather. No one seemed to ever question her disguise, sure she had a few slip ups. Like the first time she went to bathe and was nearly walked up on by a hunter. Or the time she got her first monthly as a boy and panicked—before realizing no one noticed. She learned how to discretely head off to the woods to relieve herself, however hanging around men; she came to know that they had a tendency to just whip it out and pee where they liked. She was viewed as an odd boy by most boats and travelers—but a boy none the less. She ended up taking the road a time or two, traveling with a band of signing musicians for a week, and learning to dance and play the fiddle from a young girl in the group. She suffered the first of many awkward encounters when the fiddler girl gave her-as Cam the boy-her first kiss. Cam was very confused and while flattered expressed her disinterest in the girl as best she could—by leaving the group and heading to town to find different travelers.

She traveled with a group of knights from another kingdom—Midas something. This time for about three months, on their way to see the King—his name was George, or so she learned. They marveled at the little boy, whose father hadn't taught him how to swordfight. So they did. She learned how to properly hold the thing, stand, swing, and defend herself. They laughed but even though the boy showed little improvement they tried to teach him better moves, the best angles to strike at, how to distract an opponent, they still bested him at every round but let him with profound advise. When in doubt, they said, "Stick 'em with the pointy end." Cam laughed at that and thanked them most heartedly when they parted. The youngest of them—probably her father's age, held out a spare sword to her. "It's a bastard sword," he said with a small smile, "uses a hand and a half. Better suited to your size." Cam gratefully accepted the sword, and a holster for her back. At a branch in the river, they headed east, to the castle and she headed south to the sea.

The first job she got was chopping the heads off fish. In town she asked for jobs, and not shockingly, people were much more polite to a boy than a girl. If they truly didn't have an opening they give her a sad smile, and tell her to keep looking. But the job she got completely sucked. And every day she'd go back to the Bottom Down, an alehouse and inn, to sleep, paying only with what the fishmonger gave as salary. He was a cheap old man with yellow teeth and red eyes. He told her, if she was caught stealing he'd chop off that finger with the glint of silver. Cam gulped, both for the sake of her finger and her mum's plain silver wedding band. She worked down at the Warf for a touch over a year, now the age of seventeen, having been a boy for two solid years, she had a tentative grasp on life. She decided to quit cutting heads off fish for a living.

Cam's next job both paid and smelled significantly better. She got to work in a shop, dusting, sweeping, yelling at little kids. It worked well and her boss, a man with a scraggy grey beard, though not at all affectionate, gave her space and paid her on time. When she scrapped up enough money she traveled to an inland town making an odd specific request for a strange vest-like garment, build to hold in on top and fill in on bottom. The town tailor gave her an odd look, but for a few more silver coins, asked no questions. Cam was glad to throw away the scarf, old and tattered, as it was. She smiled thinking of Sam as she did, wondering where he was now. On second thought she kept the scarf, one of her few personal possessions. Her new garment worked surprisingly well, and with that she began to replace her borrowed clothes, now very worn and small. She opted to dress in tan trousers, dark blue shirt, and an open tan vest.

Cam started to believe again. Slowly she stopped looking over her shoulder, stopped flinching at the sound of stamping boots. Life began to move forwards, until the day it stopped.


	3. Chapter 3

"Sometimes when I look at you, I feel I'm gazing at a distant star.  
It's dazzling, but the light is from tens of thousands of years ago.  
Maybe the star doesn't even exist any more. Yet sometimes that light seems more real to me than anything."  
― Haruki Murakami, _South of the Border, West of the Sun_

_Now_

"I traveled with some gypsies for a while, some knights later. I worked odd jobs, killing fish and manning a store. But one day I ran into him again. The boy that helped me and I was helpless."

Emma got up and sat on the couch next to Hook. Cruella flashed them a pained smile,

"I even fell in love…"

_Then_

Cam was headed back to the inn after work, her feet shuffling on the dirt road humming an old folk tune when she heard a call,

"Cam? Is that you?" She turned, to see a man jogging towards her. She squinted in the evening sunlight. He was tall, messy brown hair, broad in the shoulders. He looked similar…

"_Sam?" _ She stopped, letting him catch up. He smiled and pulled her close for a brief hug.

"Sam… rule seven?" She squeaked when he didn't let go.

"Rule eight, men break the rules," he teased pulling back quickly. Up close she noticed the changes in his face, gone was the round boyish look, replaced with faint stubble. Gone was that gangly boy whom she'd known for a day, replaced by a handsome man.

"What are you doing here?" She asked and it came out a little harsher than she intended but he didn't look hurt.

"Why? Unhappy to see me?" He tossed her a self-satisfied smirk. Punching him lightly in the arm, Cam grinned,

"Shut up."

"I'm here on business I'm afraid. As you may have been aware, we own a textile business. Once a year one of us comes down here to ship some garments off to a buyer."

"Exciting," she exhaled sounding anything but excited.

"I know. But I never expected to see you again… Come on, let's walk." So they walked, away from the inn, away from town, down a dirt road leading over to the river.

"Has it worked?" he asked pointing to her, up and down, at her disguise.

"So far, so good, and I can spit so much better thanks to your everlasting help," she taunted and he rolled his eyes.

"Without me, you would have been hopeless. And you know it."

"Yeah," she self-consciously tugged at the curls on her neck.

"What's with the sword?"

"Oh, I met some knights traveling down here. They taught me some basics. I still pretty much suck though."

"You met knights? And they just gave you a sword? King Asshat George's knights?"

"No… these guys wore all gold, King Midas they said."

"And they just _gave _you a sword?" he seemed confused, and hung up on that point.

"I think," she scratched her chin, "I think they felt sorry for me. I told my father never taught me how to fight, and there I was traveling the Kings road all alone."

"Why were you traveling the main road? Weren't you worried about bandits?" he still seemed confused, marveling at her stupidity and bravery.

"I was safe," she insisted.

"What? How?" She could see he wasn't going to let it go, by the dark glint in his eyes, she resolved to tell him the truth, because she desperately wanted someone to confide in.

"There's something about me you probably ought to know," Cam shrunk into herself at those words. She'd never told anyone, but if anyone deserved to know, it was Sam.

"What? You're actually a super badass warrior who could take on an entire army, single handedly," he raised an eyebrow tone dripping with sarcasm.

"Sam. Shut up." She admonished, "This is serious."

"Right. Serious." He tried to school his expression into something stoic, but a wry grin crept onto his face in spite of it.

"Sam. On my honor as," she glanced around, but no one else was on the road her clear eyes met his, "a woman." His smirk dropped and he looked down at her with expectant eyes.

"My touch, my skin… is… uncontrollably lethal." She broke her gaze and stared shamefully at the ground.

"Wait…what?" he narrowed his brows and pursed his lips, "I've touched you. I'm not dead? Are you joking? Cuz you don't look like you're joking."

"I'm not." To his credit he didn't move away from her. Though they both stopped walking.

"So… why am I not dead?"

"I…have some degree of control. With great focus, or when I don't feel at all threatened, it doesn't…work." She pulled at her hair again.

"So you can turn it off?"

"No, not technically. I can hold back, but if I just so much as touch skin without thinking about guarding the other person's life…"

"So if I," he reached out, hand hovering by her face.

"Nothing would happen. I'm not scared; I'm not angry or out of control right now. I've gotten much better."

He tucked a piece of wayward hair behind her ear, "Good to know."

"You're not scared?" They both stood paralyzed, his hand still resting on her shoulder.

"Of you?" he chuckled, "No."

She smiled bright, and genuine. They moved apart and resumed walking.

"So how long are you in town?"

"About a month, I've got several deals to make."

"I'm staying at the Bottom Down Inn, if you want to talk again," she informed him, hoping she didn't sound too much like she desperately craved company, though she did.

"Of course, I will," he said, "you and I will be the very best of friends before the month is out. Like brothers. Or brother and sister if you'd rather."

"No. As of now, I'm still a man," she shook her head.

"You've gotten better at it. The walk, the voice, and apparently," he smirked, "the spitting."

"Sam. Shut up."

O—O—O

He appeared at her door the next day around evening time. Knocking on the door, tight grey pants and a lighter grey coat, leaning on her door jamb after she opened it. He stared at her expectantly,

"So, Cam, how about a good drink? I know a place."

"Drink?" she questioned.

"Like lesson nine, men drink," he continued their little lessons game with a wink and swept his arm over the door. Cam snagged her old brown fur coat from the chair by the door,

"Alright. Let's go."

They walked side by side, both looking straight ahead, Cam immersed in pretending to be man, Sam lost in thought.

"Is there a rule ten?" she broke the silence with a raised brow.

"Ah, I'd have to thin on that. There are an indefinite number of little rules I'm sure you've picked up."

"Like, don't flirt with other men, or don't cry," Cam pointed out with a shrug.

"Yeah, neither of those. You flirted with a man?" his brows jumped and his lip quirked up on the left.

"I am…" Cam looked around the street, farm girls toting water up to the main hustle, villagers darting in and out of stores, "you know."

"I do. I just can't picture it, did you swoon, bat your lashes and all that?" He mocked in a friendly style.

"I may have held some stares far too long, but I can't ever fall in love," her look was wistful and she pulled her hair.

"Never?" He tilted his head.

"It's too dangerous, I'm a you know what pretending to you know, and my touch is you know."

"Cam, I don't think anyone is paying attention to our conversation."

"You never know." Sam then stopped near the docks, leading her into an old tavern. A wood building, low brass hanging lights, shady sort of place with a few crooked tables and stools at the bar. It was nearly full and they had to stand to get their orders in.

"What is your drink of choice?"

"I don't drink. Well, I haven't ever before except ale. And ale tastes like old socks," Cam scrunched up her nose and stuck out her tongue.

"Oh, this will be fun," his hysterical grin mirrored that of when he taught her to swear.

"Anything but whiskey," a pained look crossed her face, he was going to ask her about it when the barkeep asked for orders. He ordered two shots of tequila, handing her one.

"Ready?" She nodded and he rolled the shot back. She attempted to mimic his motion, but half chocked as the liquid burned a path down her esophagus.

"Ack," she gagged; eyes watering, coughing sloppily from the chest.

Sam held up a finger, "Ah, rule ten, hold your liquor." He sauntered up to order them more shots and Cam kept swallowing hoping the scorching sensation would fade. Two shots of tequila, one glass of bourbon and half a bottle of vodka later Cam was feeling very dizzy, light headed, buoyant, even. She was nauseous, the room was spinning and her feet landed on uneven ground at every step, yet she couldn't stop laughing. Not little giggles, but deep from the chest.

"I think we ought to get you home," grimaced Sam as he tried to lead her out of the bar.

"Sammmm… you look soooo different…" her speech was slurred and she tried to touch his face, splaying her fingers wide.

"Yep. I regret my decision to teach rule nine. Come on," he half carried her up the street, ignoring the strange looks of the few people they came across.

"Sammm… I don't feel well. Not well. Sammm…" she groaned vomiting off to the side of the road.

"Sammm… You're pretty," her drunken babble was both sickening and amusing.

"Oh am I?"

"Yeah, and tall. And the sky is…" she wiggled out of his grasp and spun in a few wild circles, watching as in her foggy vision the stars formed circles and lines up in the sky.

"Okay," he pulled her close, "only a few more blocks." She stumbled and he gave up, picking her all the way up and back to her room. He opened the door with one hand, and guided her to the bed. Setting her down he stood, straightened and reached for the door knob,

"Sammm…" she drawled.

"Yes?"

"Nite."

"Until tomorrow, Cam," he waved at her slumped sleepy figure.

O—O—O

At their next meeting, out on the street in front of the inn, she clutched her head in discomfort. The dull throbbing and rolling floor made her unwilling to leave her room, but she was persuaded when Sam offered to buy lunch.

"Why did you let me drink so much? Everything hurts."

"Lesson ten. Don't be a little bitch about pain," he almost looked condescending.

"Shut up Sam," she held onto the horse tie post, world slowly moving left for her.

"Come on, food will help, and coffee, lots of coffee," he began walking to town and she followed suit one hand clutching her temples. They walked, him in front her behind, in silence. At the little bakery, he bought a couple doughnuts and coffees. She sipped slowly while he watched in fascination.

"How is it you look so like a man, and so like a woman all at once?"

"I don't know, what am I doing wrong? Or womanly I should say?"

"You sip so daintily…"

"Well it fucking burns my already burned throat thank you very much," disdain peppering her voice.

"Oh you poor thing," he mocked in return, hand on heart, brows gathered upwards.

"Shut up." Cam half smiled, and then remembered herself and scowled instead. She continued to crabbily nurse her coffee, and once it was all gone, she brightened a bit, eating and talking lightly about the god awful hot weather. He walked her to her job, and he went off to do his own.

O—O—O

She didn't see him for a day, and when he got back they fell into a routine, of meeting and sharing a meal at least once a day, going out for a walk. He never convinced her to drink more than a glass of something, she didn't care for a repeat experience. About a week and half after he walked back into her life, they went for a night walk down at the Warf. The docks were empty a few boats tied up, none of any prominent royal, the sky was clear, stars alight.

"Sam," she mused hands behind her back, "I might miss you when you go."

"Miss me like what? A mosquito?" he hit her arm in jest.

"Perhaps a bit more than that…" she tugged her hair with a faint smile.

"Just a bit eh?" a smile tugged at his lips.

"Just a bit."

They walked to the end of the last dock in silence, both slipping off their boots to sink their feet in the dark waves.

"I might miss you too," he said after a bit, "though I don't know why, you're nothing but mocking…"

"As are you to me."

"True."

They watched the moon light dance on the waves.

"So how 'bout some drinks?" Cam suggested, trying to ease the odd tension that had begun clouding the air.

"I could go for some night tapas," he bobbed his head. They pulled back on their shoes, making their way to the bar. He ordered a bottle of champagne, and brought it to the table with a couple of wine goblets, as the tavern didn't keep any champagne glasses.

"It seemed right for tonight," he thought allowed, "it tastes like bottled stars."

Cam agreed, the light too sweet taste caused an odd ache in her jaws.

"Tell me," she pondered, "Why are two men drinking a bottle of champagne?"

"Rule eight. That's why. And because, you can't live without drinking it, good champagne, at least once. Bubbly, light, it's very fine." He raised his glass, "to good friends and good drinks." She held hers up in turn, metal ringing, harsher than that of glass.

She drank more, the sweetness nearly cringe worthy.

O—O—O

"You really should look into a better inn," he stood in the aisle at the little shop where she worked. He was playing with one of the knick knacks on the shelf and her boss glared at him as he put it down.

"I'm fine," they'd had this conversation before. He wanted her to be safe, but she was reluctant to move after this time in a stable place, after making it on her own. She didn't want his money or his help.

"Uh-huh. That's why you showed up at my cousins when you were looking for me because the prostitute in the room above yours got murdered and the blood dripping from the cracks in the floor boards was just _fine_."

"I was fine, it just…" she rolled her hand, "smelled."

He snorted, "Yeah, it's really safe, and pleasant, and all that blood and screaming made you feel right at home."

"Can we stop this conversation. Now," she insisted, glowering icily. He frowned at her look and sighed. But he knew exactly when to stop pushing.

"So, what are our plans today after you're done working?"

"I was thinking we could go get dinner. I'm hungry."

"After this morbid conversation?" He raised his brows, and she rolled her eyes.

"Well then, see you in…" he took out his pocket watch, "three hours and twenty two minutes." He turned heel and walked out of the store, the managers glare following him the distance, and Cam's bemused smile.

O—O—O

Sam balanced the twigs, end to end in a small spire on the table at the bar, carefully making sure the weaving structure didn't collapse inwards. Cam studied the half-moons of her fingernails, picking grit out from under them with a pocket knife.

"Are you done yet?"

"Almost," his whisper was strained in concentration.

"Yeah-huh, lemme know how that works out for you," she smirked as one of the bar wenches knocked into the table with her hip. Dispelling all his hard work, and set down their drinks.

"Anything else," her gaze landed on Cam and she gave her a salacious grin, leaning forward to expose more of her chest. Cam's eyes shot up in surprise,

"Uh," she looked from the front of the woman's dress to her eyes, "No…" she looked away, "Thank you?" The woman stuck out her lip in a pout and turned to Sam,

"How 'bout you?"

Sam was still grinning idiotically from watching Cam struggle through a woman's interest, as he shook his head, "No, sorry." She sauntered to the next table. Sam and Cam caught each other's eyes, and began laughing hysterically.

Cams eyes watered and her breath was short but she got words out intermittently, "I…*snicker* they usually…*chortle* aren't so…*snort* forward…*chortle* with me…" she was still struggling for breath.

"Apparently," Sam wriggled his brows, "You are a foxy young man." His howling laughter filled her ears as she pretended to vomit on the floor, between gulps of air and giggles.

O—O—O

It wasn't long before the end of her time with Sam was up. And Cam realized she didn't want him to go. Of course, Cam had no idea how to share this information, or even if she should. He had this way, of making her smile, in spite of herself, in spite of everything she had been through. As she pondered this he knocked on the door. It had to be him. No one else knew her. The past month he'd just been there, always, like he'd been there her whole life. She hadn't come to rely on anyone like this in a while. Cam knew he was leaving. Knew he'd come to say goodbye, but she didn't want it to be sad. So she brushed away her sorrows, blinked away the tears, and put on a happy little smile.

"Hey, Cam, miss me?" He leaned against the door frame, look of bittersweet happy mirroring her own.

"Like a rash," she grinned to lessen the harshness of her teasing words, hoping to fall back into their pattern of slight jibes, to retain some normalcy to this inevitably gloomy conversation. She opened the door motioning for him to come in.

"We always seem to go out walking and I thought," He held up a bottle of wine, "may haps tonight we can stay in. And not have to look like two man buddies."

"Man buddies?" she quirked a brow.

"You just mind your own business," he mock glared.

"I shall do no such thing," She took the bottle of wine and uncorked it, "I don't have any glasses…" Sam shrugged, and she took a swig directly from the bottle and passed it to him. He walked to the bed and sat, sipping the wine.

"Not too uncomfortable, but mine's better," his grin was infectious. Their teasing occasionally bordered on flirting, but nothing too obvious, as Cam was a man anywhere outside of this room and both telling themselves of course it meant nothing, just harmless quips and the silly banter of friendship. Nothing suggestive, yet now his almost was. And she had to point it out.

"Are you trying to suggest something Sam?" Her voice was all joking, but his look wavered briefly before he blushed. His look changed from playful to serious,

"Nah, I just worry about you. This inn isn't known for safety or quality."

"I can take care of myself."

"Cam, I-"

"Save it. And give me the wine." Cam took a seat next to him on the bed, and stole the wine bottle from his hands. For the past month he'd been trying to convince her to stay somewhere better, somewhere where no one had ever been stabbed to death in their sleep or sold into prostitution. But Cam kept insisting here was adequate, and she had no money. He'd even offered to help her get money and look for a place, but she was done with being controlled done relying on others. It wasn't a pretty road to head down again. A solemn silence filled the space between them and she startled when he spoke.

"I know you are built as a self-defense mechanism, inside and out for some reason," he swallowed tensely when she scowled, "and I'm sure it's perfectly valid. You, I can see you doing it now, you build up these walls, because if people can't physically touch you maybe they mentally shouldn't either, but you're wrong. But I can't help but worry, that if you end up alone in this world, it will destroy you."

Cam wanted him to write down the words, because they, to her, were beautiful. He saw her, as much as she wished to hide. The first time they'd met, they became friends, as children do, within the course of a day. But here, meeting up again years later, they both were pulled together again. And he, without knowing about her parents but knowing full well what she was capable of, still saw something beautiful and human. Cam didn't know how to respond, only now grasping that, sitting next to him, wine bottle long forgotten in her hand, he was both far too close, and not nearly close enough.

She grabbed the light grey coat he wore and pulled him close, her lips brushing his, softly, sweetly, scarcely at all, then, resting her forehead against his, their breaths intermingling closely. She seemed hesitant to take it any further for fear of her touch, the concentration anything _more_ may require, but he lifted her chin with one of his hands the other wrapping around her waist. She searched his eyes, brown and warm, a place she could feel at home in. She seemed to ask permission and he was more than willing to give.

But she couldn't. Couldn't risk hurting him. But oh, how she wanted to kiss him again, to taste those full lips of his, breath in his scent on her skin the next morning, find herself wrapped in it. But she couldn't do it. She pulled back.

"Sam—"her voice was strained. He let go of her chin but continued half holding her waist.

"I know." That was her favorite part about Sam, she didn't have to explain, or share, sometimes he just knew.

"I know you're going home tomorrow…" her voice was dangerously close to breaking, "but tonight, could you stay?" He looked perplexed by her words. "Just hold me." He held tighter to her waist pulling her body closer to his, and lay down with her on the bed. She knew it was probably just as dangerous as any other contact, but they were both clothed, and she felt like, if someone didn't hold her, she might fall apart at the seams. Her breathing fell into a rhythm, and she snuggled into his side. Sam gazed up at the ceiling, savoring what little he could get from the ex-village-thief who was progressively stealing all of his heart.

He was gone when she woke, trying to spare them both a pain filled goodbye, but it was almost worse. The bed was cold, but she could still smell him faintly, moss and oak and man. Her fingers curled around the threadbare blanket as she wept for things she knew she could never have.

_Now_

"It killed me, that I could never have had him. I valued his life more than my own—it was worth more than my own."

"What happened to him?" Emma asked.

"I'll get to it, later," Cruella sighed, "Unfortunately I did see him again."


	4. Chapter 4

"I guess that's just part of loving people: You have to give things up. Sometimes you even have to give them up."  
― Lauren Oliver, _Delirium_

_Then_

It had been three months since Sam had walked out of her life, and Cam was coping. She missed him more than she would ever say, an endless dull ache formed in her chest. More than once she wanted to skip town, find him at home, tell him… what? She didn't know for sure, maybe she wasn't ready to admit it, but something. Definitively something. But she couldn't do that to him. To ruin his life would bring eternal woe to her own. Anything between them could never come to pass. If she hurt him, she shuttered to think of the mental repercussions, it would be her mother all over again. So she tried to move on, continued working, tried to make friends.

Cam walked down to the docks, making conversation with the man, Harry, who she roomed next to at the inn,

"So," he asked politely, "are you ever actually going to move out of the inn? Buy your own place?"

"Are you?" she countered, polite, somewhat strained.

"I don't know," he shook his head, "I mean there's this girl…"

"Ah, a girl. Isn't their always a girl?" Cam smiled in a jovial knowing manner and her neighbor returned it, "Keep going."

"So, I want to be with her, get our own place right?" He looked off into the distance with a huff.

"Right…?" Cam looked confused.

"But her dad is an ass and only wants her to marry some rich guy, coz I couldn't provide well enough," he confesses head hung in shame.

"Isn't that a true concern on his part?" Cam would hope her father would have looked out for her half so much as this lucky girl's dad did, this guy, while perfectly polite did say 'be with' not 'marry', which as Cam had come to find out generally meant what her mum would've called "less than honorable intentions." But as a man, she had to view things from the other side—essentially, men have certain…_needs_. So she chose cautious words on middle ground.

"What? No. If its love, then I should be able to just sweep her off her feet, ride into the sunset." He looked longingly into the distance. She recognized the look; she'd seen it on the faces of her parents. And watched as their love for each other blocked out the product of said love—her.

"I hate to break it to you, but love doesn't work like that. You can't just look at feelings. If you do, one day those feelings might just destroy you." He glared at her and suddenly stopped walking next to her, veering off to the right. Well fine, thought Cam, be that way. What began as a polite conversation had gotten way too personal for him, and hit way too close to home for her. She just wanted to buy some fish for dinner. Just some fish.

Cam decided first to blow off some steam, walking to the end of one of the long docks, where a young girl danced in the sunlight, her mom watched from a seat on one of the stools set on the edge. Cam slipped off her shoes and stuck her feet in the cool water. The sound of seagulls and crashing waves calmed her inner angst over the brief reminder of her parents. She wished she could just let it go, toss it like a rock into the sea, where time and pressure would wear it, as they do all things, to nothing.

She heard the shriek, and leapt to her feet, fear running amuck in her veins once more. The little girl was falling before her eyes, and Cam acted instinctively, before she could full comprehend the possible complications of her actions. She grabbed the screaming girl's arm and pulled her up to the dock. Cam let go as fast as she could once the girl was on the wood. But she knew.

The mother came rushing to her side,

"Oh thank you!" she gushed, "Millie doesn't know how to swim! That could have ended just terribly!"

Cam felt physically sick. Millie hadn't moved or opened her eyes. The confused mother knelt down, "Millie? Millie? Baby?"

It was too much. Too similar. Far too soon. Cam shut her eyes and took a shaky step back. The mother looked up a storm of fear and anger in her eyes. Her child wasn't breathing, she didn't have a heartbeat.

"What kind of monster are you?" she whispered, and then got louder, "What did you do?"

Cam didn't answer, she just stood, frozen. The scene attracted several onlookers, from their ships nearby and out walking by the sea.

"What did you DO?" the woman howled, standing, she pointed a shaky finger. "Murderer!" She cried.

Cam finally moved as though the word jolted her conscience, "No. No. I didn't mean to…" She began backing away, the mother of Millie followed, shouting, "Murderer!" A few passersby' took up the cry. Cam turned heel and began to run. She pelted quickly trying not to touch anyone, trying to minimize the damage. Her fearful angry skin brushed that of a few people, but the contact was too brief, they felt a flicker of pain, but otherwise were fine. She ran but, unable to outrun the flock of murder yelling townsmen, she slowed, panting in the midst of town, outside the inn.

"Back up!" shouted the mother, "She only touched my Millie and it killed her. Who knows what dark magic she possesses?"

Cam panted heavily, unable to find her voice.

"What business goes on here?" Two knights walked out of the inn, King George's men.

"She," pointed the mother impassioned with angry tears, "killed my daughter with a touch of hand. Many of these men and women will vouch, seeing the crime in front of our eyes in broad daylight. I say we burn the witch!"

"BURN HER!" Chanted the crowd, terribly overzealous. The knights looked at each other and yelled for the crowds quiet.

"What say you?" One of them spoke to Cam. Cam regained her breath but looked ill, and merely nodded her acquiescence. He made no move to grab her however, instead whispering in the other knights' ear some secret.

The crowd grew increasingly agitated but dispersed when the knights told all to return to their beds or suffer the wrath of their King.

"This man is now the King's prisoner, he will be locked in the darkest of dungeons," it seemed to placate everyone but Millie's mother who cursed them and their future children before storming off into the late afternoon.

The knights relieved Cam of her sword, chained her up in iron shackles, denied her dinner and she was forced to sleep on the floor of their room. She couldn't tell them apart and that too bothered her. It was morning next before she even asked,

"Why didn't you let them burn me?" she looked irreparably broken, "I deserve it."

The knights shared another look,

"We are going to present you to the King. If it is indeed true about your…ability, he may have need of you."

Cam attempted to process this. The King would have use for her? To do what? When it clicked she paled visibly.

"He wants a killer." The knight who last spoke shrugged.

Cam swallowed thickly, "I'm not a killer," she looked ready to cry words gushed out of her far too quickly, "I mean, I am but not like that… not on purpose, except once, sort of, but that was self-defense and you can't expect me to…"

"Look. Our job is simple; ensure the peace of this Kingdom. You were breaking it. What the King does or doesn't do with you doesn't concern us."

"I'm Cam," she said to neither knight in particular. She hoped it would make her seem more human. But all it won her was a sharp glare and silence. They didn't talk to her after that. Nor did they give her names or respond to any other questions.

She was chained up, gloves forced on her hands, and she rode with one of the knights on a dark grey horse. Cam had never ridden a horse before, and having to straddle it not sit side saddle as her parents told her a lady did, felt odd. The knights only let her out of their sight for her to use the bathroom, and only after a lot of pleading on her part. They were so close all the time. She was astonished they never suspected her true gender. Even the traveling musicians seemed more apprehensive in nature. They day they arrived at the palace, the knights talking with other knights so many her head felt like spinning, later she was led, not into the huge stone doors but down to an iron cage: the dungeons. She was locked inside, and her cell block was full. Full of men who leered at each other, threatened to shank her if she spoke a word. She dreaded to imagine their thoughts if they'd known she was a girl.

The next day the prison guard, a portly man with red hair and a big belly, opened up the door to her cell. A knight gripped her arm hauling her out. She was filthy from the journey and lack of bathing, exhausted as well. He had to half carry her up the stairs to meet the King. All while being perfectly mindful of not touching her skin. Through various hallways they went, ending up in a meeting room, a few small tables and chairs. The knight commanded her to sit and wait. A muffled conversation began outside the door, and then several people entered the room.

Cam sat at a table, up against the wall, hoping to get a good view of everyone walking in. She recognized the King, the man wearing a crown but the others she had no inkling of their identities.

"King George," Cam struggled with her bruised legs to stand and bow.

"Sit. Sit. I hear, you could be the answer to my problems," he gave a scheming tilt to his head, "but I don't even know your name, so do tell me."

"It's Cam, your majesty. Just Cam."

"Cam…You already know me," he smiled, "this is my son Prince James and his…_friend_ Jack." James had his arm around Jack's waist and whispered something in her ear. A few knights also stood watch in the room.

"I want to see what you can do," George said, waving to one of the knights who left the room and came back in with a shirtless man, bound by his wrists with ropes. The man was force to kneel before Cam, standing in front of the wooden table.

"I can't…" her eyes widened. Before it had always, _always, _been an accident, she couldn't stoop to actually… _killing in cold blood_, "It's murder…"

"He has been convicted of treason and is anyway to hang for his crimes. Death, my boy, is death," King George motioned for her to get on with it. Cam held up a hand to touch him, but lowered it before she reached him.

"I just…" she couldn't vocalize it but she didn't want this. She didn't want to kill him or anyone. Every time she touched something and it died, the only thing she could see was her mother's face.

King George was not a patient man.

"Force him." The knights held her one dragging her forwards the other holding out her hand, protected by his metal glove. Cam couldn't stop it. She just shut her eyes. The contact of her palm to the pleading man's forehead brought shame to her face and silence to the room. She opened her eyes to the smile of the King and to the shock of everyone else. The dead man, eyes open, mouth arched in a silent scream, made her retch on her own feet.

"Oh, you'll do quite nicely."

"I won't do this for you. You can't force me to," Cam was visibly shaking.

"Oh, but you will. Or I will kill you," he stated it simply, as a fact.

"Good. I deserve it, and the world may sleep easier for it."

King George gave an indignant huff, "If your own life means so little, I will find someone who matters to you. Then we'll see how willing you are to help me."

Cam shuttered in response to the chill creeping up her spine.

"Lash him and lock him in dungeons." The Prince and his woman left the room, arm in arm, but King George stayed to watch.

Lash? No. Cam knew what was coming but cringed as a knight summoned up the royal master of torture and executions. They stripped her of her shirt, then the odd garment under it, gaping in surprise. Cam's face flamed red and she hung her head in defeat.

"Someone's got a secret… don't you… little_ girl_?" His creepy smile tugged at a memory she'd rather not relive. The knight returned and he and the torturer stood in stony silence.

"Well," said the King, "get on with it."

"But he is a she, your majesty?" the torturer sounded confused.

"Indeed, I can see. Now do 10 lashes." The man, burly and thick with red hair, quietly crept to the back of her. He gasped slightly seeing the previous scars and thick uneven tracks on her back.

"Majesty…" He gawped. The King walked wordlessly to his side,

"It appears someone else got to her first. Who flogged you little _girl_?"

Cam held her breath for fear of saying or doing something incredibly rash.

"What are you waiting for?" The King barked, and so the torturer began. Cam bit the hollow of her cheek, it was common place for her and she'd stop crying out long ago, but it brought some comfort to draw the tiniest bit of pain away from her back. Once it was done she sank to the floor laying shirtless on the cool tiles, splattered with thin drops of her own blood. The King knelt down next to her,

"We will find someone. And you will obey me. You will respect and fear me. I will own you." He stood addressing the knights and torturer, "It doesn't leave this room that he is a she. It will work more to my advantage if she is a boy." He walked out quickly, and was followed by a knight and the royal torturer. Cam was left in a pool of bad blood and horrid memories.

_Now_

"I killed a little girl, on accident, I was trying to save her." Cruella shook her head, "They brought me to the king, King George. He decided he had a better use for me than my execution. The best assassin, kills without a weapon or mark. I didn't want to the beat me, found out I was a girl, but that's not even the worst of it..."

Her audience was silent, enthralled.

_Then_

They'd fed her; given her back her garments to wear. They settled stiffly on her healing back, adhering to the new skin and needing to be pulled away often as to not be permanently stuck there. She'd have given almost anything for a decent bath however, seeing as they put her back in her old cell, surrounded by "other" men, it wouldn't bode well. She knew there was only one person for whom she would do anything to protect, one person she cared for in this world, and she begged the gods nightly that they didn't find him.

It was a week before she was pulled into a room, with a bucket and told to bathe, because she was to see the King again. Cam realized it could only mean one thing, they'd found him. She had no idea what to do, but would protect him with her life if necessary. For the briefest of moments she enjoyed being clean for the first time since her capture, but the joy didn't last long, as she was led upstairs by another nameless stalwart knight.

This time they met in the throne room, big bright banners flew from the ceiling and King George sat on his golden throne. She wasn't surprised to see his son sitting on his right, or to see Sam gagged in chains before the King. She walked down the red runway to the throne, all eyes watching her. She was struck suddenly with the thought that it was as close to a wedding as she was likely to get. Led down an aisle by a knight to a man she cared for. She wanted to laugh at the absurdness of it, but tampered down the feelings.

"I see you've come to join us. We found your little friend." King George was all grins.

"Whatever you want," Cam shrugged, hating to give in so easily, but unwilling to give him the satisfaction of hearing her beg for his life, hearing she'd do anything for him. They made eye contact and she nearly wept for the pain she saw in those soft brown eyes.

"I must see it to believe it. Kill him."

"No. If I do, you've got no leverage and I've got no reason to live." She stuck her chin out in challenge.

He appeared mildly annoyed. A new prisoner was brought up. Again she adamantly refused.

"I currently possess a heart. Unlike you. I cannot."

"Even if it means the life of your dearest and only friend?"

"I—"

"Very well, 10 lashes to him."

"NO!" She cried arms flailing, ignoring Sam's pointed look, like he could take it for the prisoners life.

"So do it. Kill him," George all but snarled.

Cam shut her eyes and tapped into her fear for Sam. She tentatively touched the man's arm, held in place for her by a guard. The perished prisoner marked her fifth victim. Cam shriveled away,

"Now let him go. I did what you wanted; I'll do it again if I must, but let him go."

"No."

Cam wanted to scream, hurl insults, cry, break his nose, something, anything. She stood still, resisting only in lack of motion, as she was dragged down to the dungeons behind Sam. He was untied and ungagged at the entrance, they had nearby cells. As soon as the knight and prison guard were out of sight he exploded,

"Cam! How could you?"

"I couldn't let them hurt you like that," Cam didn't wish to get into particulars, but to see him whipped, like she had been as a child, may have broken her more than her own lashings.

His look softened but only slightly, "Cam. That man is dead."

"I know," she gave a shaky sigh, "and he wants me to make a lot of men dead."

"I'm not worth it," he pleaded her with his eyes, to believe him on this.

"You are to me," Cam insisted, "I could do it so easily if I was as heartless as he."

"If you didn't have a heart… I couldn't love you." They both jumped in disbelief at his sudden declaration. Sam ran a hand through his hair. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize," Cam said gruffly, but didn't return the words. She knew if she did, all he would have to do was ask. Ask her to let him die so she wouldn't have to kill to keep him safe. Silence ensued.

She watched as exhaustion overcame Sam and his breathing fell into even pulls. She had to get him out of here. She shut her eyes tightly hoping for some way out of this mess to present itself.

"Hello dearie," a voice behind her in the cell. She turned eyes wide with fear. He had odd scaly skin and too large golden irises.

"What do you want?" she gulped.

"The question dearie is not what I want but what _you _want. And as I understand you are in quite the predicament," he talked with his hands in constant motion, and her eyes followed his hands, finding the eyes of this creature too unnerving.

"I… want him safe," she pointed to Sam in the next cell, "And I don't want to kill people."

"Well dearie," he giggled, "I can't guarantee either of those things. I heard you could do better without a heart though."

Cam clutched her chest, "My heart? What and I'd just give it to you?"

"You don't have many options…" he trilled. He turned away as if he was about to leave, so she called out,

"Who are you anyway?"

"Rumplestiltskin," he turned back bowed slightly with flourish. She tilted her head, considering.

"What would you do with it, my heart I mean?"

"Oh I don't know, save it for a rainy day I suppose," he tittered. She glared.

"How would this help either of us? I wouldn't love him anymore, I could kill him. And you would have…?"

"You'd remember loving him, it would stop you. Oh you could get it back, after I have what I want."

"What do you want with it?"

"That is not something you need to know."

"But what if were to do something awful?"

"Haven't you already dearie?" he sounded exasperated with her questioning, "Now get on with it, I've other things to do today."

"I see no other options, if I do not, George will probably kill him despite losing leverage," she tried to convince herself.

"Excellent," a wave of his hand and a scroll appeared, covered in fine black script, and a black plumed quill, "just sign at the bottom." Cam glanced at the print, but signed quickly. He reached into her chest with embellishment pulling out the glowing heart. She made an odd sucking noise, eyes going wide. Rumplestiltskin grinned and vanished into a cloud of green smoke.

_Now_

"They found him. Sam. The only one I'd kill for. But even then it killed me. So when the Dark One offered to take my heart off my hands for me, I agreed. I was so naive."


	5. Chapter 5

**Cruella**: _[bursts through the door]_ ANITA, darling!**Anita**: How are you?**Cruella**: _[gleefully]_ Miserable, darling, as usual. Perfectly wretched!-**Cruella: **They are my only true love, dah-ling. I _live_ for furs, I _worship_ furs! After all, is there a woman in this wretched world who doesn't?-

_Then_

Cam's eyes flickered into wakefulness, stretched the pain of sleeping on stone away from her body. Looking over to the next cell she watched Sam's sleeping form, the rise and fall of his breathing, and she felt nothing. She knew she should feel a tug, warmth in her belly that led to smile on her face, but now, she looked away. Whatever had been was gone. She didn't have to be controlled, and she didn't have anything to lose anymore. The guard walking by her cell paused to pass through the grits served for breakfast and Cam called to him, asking for a new audience with the King. He agreed to meet with her again, in hopes of her "coming around" to his way of thought.

She walked down the corridor, hands bound but chin held high. The long walk down the throne room awaited her, it's plush red carpet leading to the high silver chair of the King, the dark amber chair of his hand, and other wooden chairs of various royalty and advisors lining the walk way. Cam was aware of their burning gazes, a flush creeping up her neck in spite of her resolve to appear as stoic as possible. She arrived at the foot of the throne bowing deeply,

"My Grace."

"Your Grace," he quirked an eyebrow, correcting her.

"Your Grace," she affirmed, "I have reconsidered my initial opinion. I will do as you want, but would like compensation." She swallowed thickly, she remembered wanting other things, softer things, but now, having to kill didn't seem so heinous. After all, what else was she good for?

Over the course of the next year she faced many assignments from King George, strategic killing of diplomats, competing royalty, insubordinate peasants, the list when on. Each death appeared natural with no odd wounds or blood or poison. Camella got better too, sneaking in to unseen places, casually touching strangers. No flash of regret, with her heart gone she knew no burden. They kept Sam locked in the dungeon and every time she hesitated to go out on a job, they threatened to beat him, so she went. As time passed she no longer protested, and they stopped threatening him. She stopped caring if they did, she couldn't care any more.

One was a young boy who had been acting as a bandit on the Kingsroad, him she merely had to provoke by carrying a bit too much gold on the road, he touched her arm in trying to steal it. One a treasurer fond of stealing from the coffers. Him she asked a tour from, and he led her through the vault, at the end she asked a simple hand shake.

She also learned many courtly things, when not on missions her duties were to go to basic schooling. She learned reading, writing, arithmetic, the complex map and sigils of all the royal families. She learned their names, learned why King George wanted most of them dead, to control their kingdoms too it seemed. Cam learns how to address people of different ranks, how to speak with proper grammar and enunciation.

Camella learned to waltz, learned how to dress for all kinds of events, both as a man and a woman. She learned the different forms of cutlery, the proper way to hold a fork and sit at a table.

It took her almost four years to learn all this. It was only then that she had earned enough trust to be sent on her most difficult mission yet.

She was sent to terminate the life of a little boy.

He was 7, and one of the King's bastard sons whom he did not want to take the throne. Camella arrived at the farm house and got a job as the stable hand. She watched the little boy run and play in the fields, not even upset by what she had to do, she offered to hoist him up on a horse, only to watch as he slumped forward, still. She left the farm right after, leaving the dead little boy up on the brown mare. Simply walked away, utterly empty. She didn't enjoy ending the lives of the young, not like she started to look forward to killing the old men, the greedy women, it was the only 'fun' she was allowed. It began to amuse her, the looks of pain, the flashes of life leaving the body. She had nothing else to look forward to, it was the only job she could have, so she started to enjoy it.

Those in court who were responsible for her education started to call her the King's dog. She growled in response.

She started to become better known, and the higher lords of the kingdom were allowed by the King to buy her services if they desired, and if their wishes coalesced with his. She started to look forward to it, the increase in jobs. It meant less time in the grand castle full of stares burning with hatred. She'd killed a lot of loved ones, of the people there.

She took to wearing all black, still disguised as a man, and dying half her hair black. Claiming it a mark, a mark of the life she now led. She killed some in their sleep, she seduced young women away, she was in control.

With her dark gift in magic, as King George called it, they began trying to train her in other dark arts. She was hopelessly poor at most of the tasks, fire didn't suit her, sleeping curses were a mess. The only thing she was good at, and very good at, was controlling animals. Dogs, horses, bugs, all of the obeyed her will with a soft breath from her lips.

_Now_

"I started killing, and for five years I was good. Very good. I was also terrifying to anyone who encountered me. I got an education out of the ordeal. I learned so much, and made a lot of money. They tried to train me in dark magic as well, but the only thing I was truly good at was controlling animals," she laughed a little, "What an odd combination."

_Then_

It was five years before she was captured, though that had been the plan. The only way the King could think of to get her an audience with the Queen of the Southern Isles, the only one who had outright refused the hand of Prince David. The Queen was a cautious woman, her husband dead of disease, a young son in the castle. She was always surrounded by advisors and guards. The Queen didn't speak with commoners unless her presence was mandated at the trial of a criminal, so that, Cam reasoned was the only way to sneak in. The only way to kill her.

She snuck into the castle, posing as a servant, she went to the keep responsible for holding the castles coins and jewels, clumsily "stealing" a pair of garnet earrings, she was "arrested" by the guards.

They left her in the dungeon, an irritating place. It was below the castle, absurdly hot and full of biting flies. She spent nearly a month there, trapped in the lowest cells, apparently they described her to the Queen, who had heard of King George's loyal dog who tore the throats from his enemies. She was to be given a full court trial, which suited her purposes well. No one knew how she killed, and seeing as she was unarmed they would not be prepared for the fight they had coming. Being held prisoner that long, they found out she was a woman. Her monthly blood to blame for that fault, it was no matter she was to be tried the same as man at any rate.

_Now_

"I was caught, on purpose, it was one of my grandest plans, one of my greatest successes," she looked down, "It made me infamous. It also made me sick, twisted, and beyond saving."

_Then_

Cam sauntered into court, held by two knights after being dragged from the prison. Her gait still very much a man's yet her hair had finally grown out to her shoulders. It swished in a series of uneven fringes, light silvery blonde except for the dark half that ran over her left ear.

"Go on, stand before the Queen, and confess your crimes," one of the knights called out. Their hands both thickly gloved in chainmail for protection. They tossed her down to her knees in that great court, the crack of them hitting the stone floor reverberated through the room. It was a great hall, one giant set of double doors leading outside, the rest smaller, going elsewhere in the palace. She was thrown at the foot of a short stone staircase. Cam cried out in pain, glaring murderously at the Queen in front of her, on her plush red throne, cloaked in a vibrant purple dress. The Queen raised her eyebrows expectantly. And Cam stood, wiping the dirt off her pants,

"I was a commissioned killer for a great number of royals. I did all the dirty little things they wanted to do; I sullied my hands so they could stay pure. And I got paid for it. Immensely."

"How?" asked the Queen, "How could you kill all those innocent?"

"Maybe," Camella pondered, "Maybe I just enjoyed it."

The crowd gasped, shrinking back at her confessions. And while they were back, she leapt forward, the tried to follow but her hand was positioned at the Queen's throat. The Queen held still, holding her breath, not wishing to move and end her life prematurely. Shouting and chaos ensued but Cam talked over it.

"I am death. My touch devours. I never have need of a weapon." Her mouth twisted into a sadistic grin. This may be her last mission, the court here spreading the news she was a woman, why not reveal how she killed as well?

"Stop I beg of you. Anything you wish to have is yours," the Queen implored, as the townsmen gathered to watch slunk back, terrified yet unable to look away. The knights continued to debate going to help but when one tried, Cam touched the skin of his chin exposed under the helmet and he fell at her feet. The rest seemed more hesitant after that.

"You know what I want? More than anything?" She smiled shaking her head.

"No…?" the Queen gulped. She sighed,

"I want you dead." Cam's hand gripped her jaw and she was forced to look up at her, the sun back lighting her cruel twisted laughing face. Power surged through her and she felt her die, wordlessly, mercilessly and without any damage or blood. But she held on the rage burbling out in an unstoppable force. And watched in sick curiosity as the Queen's skin started sloughing off her own body onto the floor. The townsmen screamed, ran in fear and the knights now rushed forward at Cam, stopping when she held up her hands,

"Make the smart choice, don't say I never gave you the chance," Cam smirked as they pushed their way over to the doors to the outer world, "_Run."_

The men and women gasped in horror as the door appeared to be locked preventing Cam's escape—and now theirs. A knight hurried to unlock it. So it was only right that when their heard her next remark they nearly died of fright,

"You know," Cam tilted her head, "the skin of the bitch would make a very nice coat."

Camella stood in the grand hall over the body for what seemed to be a long time and only a few brief seconds. She thought, harder than she wanted to. A young man poked his head out of one of the many doors. And rushed to the dead Queen's side,

"How could you?!" he spluttered, pounding his fists against Camella's legs as tears tracked down his face. "She was my mother."

"I know." Cam watched, feeling a pull at something in her chest, something she should remember—but no. She didn't want to feel what _that _was. He sobbed and the villagers hushed their clamor. The fight seemed to flicker out of Cam's eyes and she backed up. The man stood angrily,

"I demand to know your name."

"You don't appear to be in position to make demands…darling," Camella half-heartedly mocked, trying out a pet name. She decided she like the idea of the pet name 'darling', she hated all these people, and it ridiculed them in just the right tone. The man held his ground, "As Prince Rodger, of the Southern Isles I demand to know who you are. So that someday, I can find you, someday when you're not looking or lose your powers, and I will lock you up, to never be released!"

"Quite the speech darling," Cam tilted her head in the most demure smile she could muster, not letting the smallest bit of niggling doubt at her ability to escape unscathed show, "Camella. Camella DeMoore at your service."

"Cam-Ella?" the man scoffed, "What a stupid name. You have so pointlessly cruel. So evil. Cam-ella. More like Cruel-ella, Cruella the devil." She lunged at him then and he ran from the grounds of the hall, out the door he came in.

The knights found the correct key and unlocked the iron chains. When they sprung the door the citizens poured out onto the streets running home to tell their families about the woman who committed Regicide before their very eyes. The woman dubbed with the name of Cruella.

Camella left the throne room, walked out of the castle and onto the streets, those who say her ran the other way. She went down to the warf and demanded passage on one of the ships, killing two crew members to get it.

King George was not pleased to see her, despite her success her identity was blown and her methods were common knowledge. She was however not capable of being a "good" captive, so the King decided to make use of her fame, uttering that all who tried to put anything past him would face his bitch, Cruella De' Vil.

Cruella was granted a small castle to keep on the northern border of the kingdom, away from prying eyes, coming to court only when necessary. She made increasingly egregious amounts of money, spending it on the best, black dresses and fur coats, sleek black carriage with black stallions. She began using makeup, playing up her dangerous cheekbones, haunting pale eyes and dark brows. She wanted to look as dangerous as she felt, fearsome, predatory.

_Now_

"I killed that woman, who'd done nothing more than not want to marry the Prince. She was brave. And I killed her. And I enjoyed it," Cruella narrowed her brows, "I'm not _good _by any means. But after it was over, even now, I have regrets. I know why I don't deserve a happy ending. That doesn't mean I don't want one."

She saw horror on their faces, also pity.

"Don't pity me. It wasn't even over. I went back."

_Then_

**The next visit to the castle of the Southern Isles—4 years later**

Camella strode out of her carriage, the ball was already underway, but she felt like making a grand entrance. This was, after all, the place where she'd finally completely become herself. It looked the same, the grand oaken door, and the stone walls surrounding the great hall.

She looked so different from before, no longer in torn wool pants and led by knights to face her questioning. She now wore a dress, simple black silk, with a slight slit in the legs for the freedom of movement. Her black heels clicked on the cobbled path up to the doors. Her hair was much longer, down past her shoulders, though still straight and pale blond with the same dark side of black. The most interesting thing about her outfit this evening however, was her coat. Long, down to her ankles, pure white, soft as silk, a coat of mink, fit for a queen. She was quite partial to it, and refused to remove it at the door. It was marvelously extravagant and expensive, she requested the design in court from the royals tailor, knowing it would be _perfect_ for the occasion.

It was odd how she got inside, no trouble as if they'd been expecting her. The ball was held in honor of Prince Rodger's marriage to Lady Anita. Though the Southern Isles were a small kingdom at the edge of the Realm, and Rodger was fifth in line for the throne, no expense was spared. The chandeliers were lit, tapestries dusted and vibrant, men in dapper suits, and women in huge gowns. She saw them, Rodger and Anita, at the end of the room, residing on the two thrones, a table in from of them.

She sashayed through the caravan of dancing people; they parted in her wake gasping in awe, surprise, fear? Cam wasn't sure, but the attention sent a thrill through her veins. The smile fell off of Rodger's face as Camella approached. Cam smiled and gave her best curtsy. Anita looked afraid but managed to say,

"Hello Cruella, how are you?"

Cam hated the name. But she beamed falsely in response, "Miserable darling," she rolled her eyes up to the painted crown molding on the ceiling, "perfectly wretched," her gaze fluttered back down to the couple, holding hands before her at the table.

"Why are you here Cruella?" Rodger dubiously narrowed his eyes. Anita patted something under the table.

Cam waved her hand in a rolling motion, "Oh, just came to wish the happy couple my best." A Dalmatian popped its head up, growling at Camella.

"I think it best you leave," Rodger retorted, annoyance clouding his face. Her dark eyes flashed,

"I _love _the dog. Such a pretty coat she would make." The look on Rodger's face was one she had waited so long for. Such pain. Such shock. For a single, solitary moment in time, Camella didn't feel alone in her agony. But she didn't stay to bask in her success—or face the consequences of her words.

"Well, lovely to see you darlings, but I must be on my way." She turned heel and stepped back into the crowd. Conversation resumed and one guard went so far as to try and grab Camella, he died for his mistake. Once outside in her carriage Camella felt hollow. For all the work the brief joy was gone, and replaced with the nothingness that she had grown so used to. She urged her driver faster, faster, the wild wind and swinging carriage racing in rhythm with the hunk of black that was should have been a heart.

_Now_

"It changed me. Those trips to that island. I came to my greatest power. I felt like a God. But so empty. I would have done anything to keep that power, that wealth," She frowned, "I did. My greatest regret is what I did trying to keep that power, that faith with King George."

_Then_

It was a week after the incident with Rodger and Anita. She had been summoned before the court, her light gaze piercing the crowd, high dark brows and thin scowl. Her great white fur stole draped over one shoulder.

"Hello Sam," her gaze filtered down. She barley felt the twinge she had felt over nine years ago, she knew she had once cared for him, but no longer. She had nothing to lose. He was smaller somehow, kneeling on the floor in front of the King, emaciated and pale. Nine years locked in darkness leaving him with thick brown hair down his back, a scraggly beard, and dark circles under his eyes. The only thing she recognized in this creature were those eyes, quiet brown, and still compassionate.

"Hey," he frowned, "you don't have to do this. But I understand if you do, you have no other way out." His eyes were sad, but Cruella felt nothing. She figured, since the moment they had brought him in, it would come to her killing Sam, the only person in this world who cared for her at all.

"Kill him, and I will consider you loyal. Still." King George tilted his head, "I no longer believe I need leverage."

Cruella flashed a dark smile, "Well I suppose we shall see, Your Grace." She steps to the foot of the great throne, directly in front of the King, standing beside a kneeling Sam. The King merely smiled and gestured to Sam. She leaned down very close to his face, making to move to touch him.

"I think I loved you once, when I was young," she considered, "and you loved me too. What a great pair of fools were we?"

Sam opened his mouth to answer but Cruella had slid her hand down his face is a light caress, pulling his mouth to hers. She let whatever remnant of feeling she had flow from her, and upon her own lips Sam breathed his last.

She pulled back staring at his slumped body, hand touching her tingling lips, "Will that be all, Your Grace?"

"Yes," the King waved a hand, "Go."

Cruella turned and left the room, sitting down on a bench in the garden she raised a hand to her cheek to brush off the hair, and pulled it back in surprise, it was wet.

A maid came out of the castle some time later, laying a hand on her shoulder, "I am sorry."

Cruella turned and grabbed her wrist, face dry and emotionless, "Do not be." She tried to kill this woman with her touch, but nothing happened. Her power as mysterious as it had come, had faded out with her kiss of death. She was done, it was over.

She retreated to her castle, refusing guests, keeping a quieter power, controlling animals to patrol her grounds. She refused to return to court, having dogs attack anyone who tried to make her. Time past and she improved her basic skills with dark magic, though the darkest magic of all had long since left her. When the kingdom fell to shambles due to court drama, a woman called "the Dark Queen" rising to power in a neighboring kingdom, the princes son slaying a dragon, and somehow different than he had been before, out to marry King Midas' daughter. Another woman who was to rule the enchanted forest running away to the woods as a bandit, Cruella kept to herself, living a private luxury with her wealth, it was a hollow victory. She knew now, there was no happy ending for her.

_Now_

"I was nothing. Worse than nothing. I'd lost my power. The power that had killed everyone who cared about me. It was all for naught. I wanted the hurt to stop. I wanted to be happy again, like I had been back in the Bottom Down, or at the festival before my mother…"

_Then_

A small black box appeared outside of her door one day, and upon opening it she found the blackened still beating heart that belonged in her chest. She picked it up and returned it to its place. By then it was so black with all she had done, the effect was minimal. After all with all those who loved her, all those she'd ever loved dead at her own hands, what could be done? What would weeping solve?

She frowned as a slim envelope was slid under her door. An invitation? She picked it up, summoned to some meeting at Maleficent's palace. A wry grin found its way to her face. She called for the carriage.

It turned out to be a meeting. Arranged by Rumpelstiltskin in the gloom of Maleficent's castle.

-0-0-0-

"I got my heart back. Decided I did truly want to be happy. I wanted to stop hating myself for what I had done. I was still on the side of darkness, but I didn't want to kill pointlessly," she lamented, "I got an invitation, so I followed the directions to Maleficent's palace. I met Ursula and Maleficent there, we knew each other by reputation of course, but not personally." She paused running a hand through her hair, "we actually worked together quite well, saving each other when Rumpelstiltskin abandoned us in the cave. He took what he wanted and left the dragon to kill us. Snatching away our 'happy endings'," she scoffed, "as if such a thing could ever exist for us."

"We worked together after that, calling ourselves the Queens of Darkness," Cruella smiled, "We searched in vain for happy endings, working with Rumpelstiltskin, even offering him a place among us. But he wanted to work alone, and betrayed us at every turn. We got quite close. Say what you will about those who possess dark magic, but they were kinder to me than many of those who did not. We became like sisters. But now, Ursula's gone, and The Dark One is not trust worthy, Maleficent only wants her child."

Cruella looked up at her captors, Emma Swan, August Booth, and Captain Hook. She remained seated on the wooden chair of the loft apartment. Resting her head against her shoulder, she continued the story.

_Then_

Cruella sipped her gin and tonic, rolling her eyes as Maleficent prattled on about some grandiose plan.

"Cruella!" Maleficent barked, "Are you even paying attention?"

Cruella put down her drink on the marble table in front of Malifcent's great hearth.

"Yes, yes, storm the castle, put everyone under a sleeping curse. Haven't you been there done that?"

"It was very effective."

"Yes, great. Well then what?" Cruella sneered.

"Then what? Then we have our revenge on the helpless heroes, we have the power to cut them down and raise up," Maleficent stood grinning, "We could rule the kingdoms, take our happiness with our power. Power can get you most material things. It can also convince people to love you, trust you, whatever you desire."

Ursula sashyed into the room sitting down on the couch next to Cruella, Maleficent on the chair next to them.

"What did I miss?"

"Only Malifcent's next brilliant plan. Another sleeping curse," Cruella sighed. She and Ursula shared a look.

"Again!?" Ursula groaned, "We have to talk you down from this plan everytime. Again let me reiterate, once everyone is asleep, you kill the heroes. Great? No. Because everyone we'd rule over is still asleep. No happiness would be accomplished. None. At all."

"Fine…"Maleficent huffed, "You have any better ideas?"

"We could go set some huts on fire," suggested Cruella, "that always brightens your mood."

Maleficent grinned, "I do love watching the peasants scream and flee."

_Now_

"So you just burned people for fun?" Emma asked wide eyed.

"Don't play so innocent, Darling. We are the Queens of Darkness. What did you expect, tales of rescuing puppies?"

_Then_

"She's doing it again," Ursula grumbled standing on the lake side next to Cruella.

"Who is doing what again?" Cruella replied, disdainfully flicking her cigarette to the floor. A nasty new habit she'd picked up on their recent trip south to the Sand Lands. Cigarettes a unique commodity in the southern heat.

"You must stop smoking it smells awful," Ursula chastised, then added, "Maleficent. She went off into the village to set fire to its homes. Like a lost little puppy always returning to the same activities."

Cruella snorted, "A fire breathing puppy with a 50 foot wingspan."

Ursula nodded, "And talons, don't forget the talons."

Cruella rolled her eyes and they laughed together.

_Now_

"We were so close, Ursula and I. Controlling fathers and all," Cruella's eyebrows furrowed, "I still can't believe she left without saying goodbye."

"They took her baby, Maleficent's baby," Crulla swallowed, "your parents, that is. Made it dark, so you wouldn't be." She looked level at Emma who was holding Hooks hand tightly like a lifeline.

"Ursula and I, we went to go retrieve it, but by the time we got to the sorcerer it was too late. It and us were sucked through a portal to this land. We lost each other on the journey here, and didn't try to locate one another."

"I seduced a banker," she smiles wide, "he was committing fraud, embezzling, and forgery. A rich rich man. I thought I could buy my happiness with his money, I tried to buy it in furs and gin and smoke. But it was like chasing the wind, it still is. We lived together for years, all the years of the curse, all the time after it broke, until one day he was arrested. Consequently, or not, that was the day Rumplestiltskin and Ursula walked back into my life, trying to convince me to go with them. I didn't want to. But they were my only real option, after all, my husband's assets were suspended. I kept a coat, drove off with them in my car. Gods I love that car. Best thing about this world: cars. And good gin. But I digress, they told me we were taking back the happy endings, for us, the villains, and I wanted to believe them. So I did."

"How did you get Rumple inside Storybrooke?" Hook asked, Emma still frozen staring at their interlocked fingers.

"Simple, we used the same paper you gave us, free admittance. I may regret that decision now…"

The room fell quiet and the sun began setting.

"So now what?" she inquired.

"Now," Emma considered, "you help us. Look I can't promise you a Happy Ending or safety, but I can promise you that if you help us, you can redeem yourself. Anyone can find redemption."

Cruella looked up from her chair into Emma's sharp green gaze, "May get my coat?"


End file.
